Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [15]
It was the mystery.
He’d told me that he needed to know the how, and that was fine. But I wanted to know the why. I wanted an answer at least as badly as Ian did, and I wasn’t even the victim of anything. It could be that’s half of what motivated me: the thought that if I didn’t understand it, I could fall prey to it, too.
But the other half of my motivation came from farther back in my brain, in the curious part that I inherited. It came from the spot in my skull that feels the burning need to unravel puzzles, finish crosswords, indulge in Internet games, and read all the mystery books I can get my grubby little paws on.
Like it or not, need it or not, and want it or not, I can’t leave a good mystery alone.
And Ian’s case was a mighty good mystery. There were so many questions lurking under the crust of that pie. How did Uncle Sam find out about us? What did the military want with Ian? Now that the army knows we’re a fact, what do they intend to do about us?
I had other questions, too, but they had the kinds of answers I could probably pry out of Ian if I really felt the need. Among other things, I wondered how he’d gotten caught in the first place, and how he’d escaped. The longer I thought about it, the more I felt like I’d let him out of the wine bar too full of unshared information.
It might be useful to me, knowing how he was captured and what happened to him while he was in custody. Then again, it might not.
I stuffed the envelope into my bag and began the walk back home.
All of it was uphill, but that wasn’t the worst thing in the world. And it was cold, but it wasn’t wet outside. I was feeling pretty spry about the whole thing. I had an interesting case—
Well, no I didn’t. Not really. I’m not in the business of solving mysteries. I’m in the business of making mysteries. But something must be hard-coded into my genes because I really loved the idea of solving this one. Or maybe I loved the idea of solving Ian Stott.
It’d been a long time since I’d hung around any vampires (by my own choice), and I didn’t miss them much. Even so, once in a while it’s nice to sit down for a beverage with someone who doesn’t require any explanations. I could’ve said things like, “Christ, the other night I came this close to snacking on a trust-fund gothling, just because I loved what she was wearing. That’s wrong of me, isn’t it?” And then my vampire friend could say, “Oh no, sweetheart, I’ve been there!”
Granted, Ian couldn’t have said any such thing. And this thought led directly into another, more personal one: How on earth did he feed? Did he operate by smell, or by hearing, or did the lovely and talented Cal bring him bags of O-negative on a platter? Come to think of it, Cal himself might make a friendly meat-sack. Did they even have that kind of relationship?
I know, I know. None of my business. But you can’t blame a girl for wondering.
At the bottom of my bag, my cell phone buzzed and tootled. I paused in front of a darkened shop window and retrieved it, saw the number, and answered it fast.
Without any fanfare I demanded, “What?”
A thin, whispery voice on the other end said, “I think someone’s trying to get inside.” The voice sounded scared and girlish, because let’s be fair—it came from a frightened little girl.
“Son of a bitch,” I swore. “Listen, I’m out and about, and I don’t have my car with me. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“What do I do?”
“Where’s your brother?”
“I don’t know,” she breathed. “He went out. What do I do?”
“Hide,” I told her. “Stay put. I’m on my way.”
I flipped the phone shut, threw it back into my bag, and started to run.
I suppose I should make a few things clear before I tell too much of this part. First of all, I wasn’t running out to save some scared little girl. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like the little girl in question; she’s a perfectly nice little girl, so far as small people go. Her big brother is